


darling, you've left your mark

by defcontwo



Series: won't let this city destroy our love [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Open Relationships, Queer Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 11:11:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1938723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo/pseuds/defcontwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They know what they are to each other. Jealousy is a waste of time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	darling, you've left your mark

Becca's got both hands fisted into the pockets of her dress, chin turned up and a glare set on her brother. She's almost at eye's level with him, now, eighteen years old and still growing and he can't keep looking at her like she needs protecting, not anymore. 

"What do you mean, _no_?" 

"Becca…." Bucky starts, folding his arm across his chest. "C'mon, you know why. You could get arrested. You could get hurt, don't be stupid." 

You could get arrested, she wants to say. You could get hurt. You're being a fucking hypocrite, James Buchanan Barnes, she wants to say, because it's true, every inch of it. He and Steve, they've been going to the queer bars for years now, been sneaking out since they were seventeen, eighteen. 

And it isn't just the bars, either, not at all. There's Bucky taking that sweet drag queen, Rosa, the one who taught him how to dance, out to the movies all of the time and daring anyone to say shit about it. There's Steve going around with that boy Robert from Harlem 'cause they both like to talk about art. 

Sure, Steve don't do it as often, going around with someone else, but she's realized it's less to do with wanting and more to do with the fact that every second he's not sick, Steve thinks he should be working, pulling his weight, as if one day her and Bucky are gonna stop, gonna say they've had enough of this sickly free-loader. As if she doesn't love him as if he was her own blood, as if Bucky doesn't look at Steve as if he hung the fucking moon in the sky. 

The two of them, always coming home to each other, like magnets ever drawn together. Bucky'd said to her once that there are promises he can make and promises he can't and he ain't ever making Steve a promise that the world won't let him keep. 

They know what they are to each other. Jealousy is a waste of time. 

There's a yawning, aching curiosity deep in her gut that shudders and groans and screams, I want to know what that's like. I want to know what it's like to have someone look at me like that, as if all the little questions of the universe are a little less terrifying, a little less distant when I'm near. 

"I know what you're thinking, Buck," Becca starts and then stops, swallowing hard. "I know what you're thinking and did it ever occur to you that this isn't. This isn't just me always wanting to follow you, all right? I'm not twelve years old, trying to sneak into my big brother's classroom because I was scared of making friends my own age, all right? Maybe this is something I want to do for myself. For my own reasons."

And Bucky -- Bucky goes a little soft, a little sorry around the edges, looking down at her with the same expression he had when he taught her how to braid her hair for her Bat Mitzvah, with the same expression he had whenever he used to clean up her scraped knees and elbows because she didn't want Mama to know that she'd gotten hurt climbing trees again 'cause it wasn't ladylike. He uncrosses his arms and pulls her close to his chest, wrapping his arms around her and she buries her face in the hollow of his neck and here's how she knows she's not gonna get hurt, not now, not ever -- she's got her big brother looking after her and for as long she's got that, she might as well have the whole world in the palm of her hands. "'M sorry, Becca," he murmurs into her hair. "'M sorry, I should have thought -- look. We'll go tomorrow, all right?" 

"If it makes you feel any better," she says, "you can teach me how to throw a punch first." 

Bucky laughs and if it comes out a little wet, well, maybe this time she's not gonna tease him so much. "Nah, you can ask Steve for that. He's the one always getting into fights." 

. 

He's in the middle of what feels like fucking nowhere Italy and whatever Bucky used to think about Italy, whenever he took the time to daydream about traveling, about getting out of Brooklyn and seeing the world, it wasn't this. It wasn't rain in his boots and a stench that he'd like to blame on Dum Dum but he's pretty sure it's coming from every last one of them, himself included, and a gnawing hunger in his gut that Army rations couldn't even come close to staving off. 

"What's all this shit about?" Bucky asks, taking the time to settle back against the ground, rifle in hand. Dum Dum shrugs and grunts, a useless non-answer, but it's pretty much exactly what Bucky expected. They've stopped, made camp and run into some other infantry division and no one can get a straight fucking answer as to who's in charge here and where they should go next. So much for good ol' fashioned U.S. Army coordination. Operation Avalanche, a sterling fucking success so far in the eyes of Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, if he does say so himself. 

He tries not to think about Steve so much, these days. He knows that if he starts, he'll never be able to stop, like unplugging a cork and letting it all out, an unending flow of what ifs and should have beens. What would they be doing, now, if they were home together in Brooklyn. They'd be eating breakfast, probably. Steve curling a hand around the warmth of his coffee cup, eyes bleary in the early hours of the morning, voice just muzzy enough that every biting snap of sarcasm just comes out mostly hilarious. Bucky'd kiss him, then, wrap a hand around the nape of Steve's neck and pull him in close, and Steve'd pretend to be annoyed about it but it'd all be total bullshit and they'd both know it. 

Bucky presses the heels of his palms to both eyes and groans. And here he told himself he wasn't gonna start in on that and look what he's done. 

"Bucky? Bucky Barnes?" 

Bucky's head snaps up. Looming over him is a soldier from the other infantry division -- a Private, First Class, dark-haired and unfamiliar, the name Sanchez written across his breast. Bucky squints, tilting his head to the side because he knows that voice, knows those eyes, knows the curve of that mouth for all that he's used to seeing it covered by lipstick and he mouths, _Rosa_ , incredulously. 

"It's Carlos, remember? From two streets over back in Brooklyn," Sanchez says, eyes tight and carrying a warning sign and Bucky plays it up, acts like it's just this dumb war, the lack of sleep that kept him from recognizing an old pal. He lets Sanchez give him a hand up from the ground and they walk, a careful foot apart because they are a long, long way from home and it is only when they are completely alone, as alone as they can be, obscured by so much rock and foliage, that Bucky finds himself with an armful of familiarity, a face tucked into the crook of his neck, _Jesus, I'm so fuckin' glad to see you, Barnes,_ breathed into dirty skin. 

Bucky presses an absent kiss to equally dirty hair and finds that he can't bring himself to find the shape of the name, _Carlos_ , unused and unfamiliar, and so he murmurs back, "me too, doll, me too." 

. 

Peggy takes a deep swig from the flask, feels the liquor burning all the way down and it's like she can feel it go straight to her spine, unloosening knots as it goes. Her uniform jacket is draped over a chair and she's swung her feet over the legs of one Sergeant James Barnes, the two of them tangled up on the cot in Captain America's specially assigned tent, and it's about as relaxed as she'll ever allow herself to be until this war is over. 

Sometimes, she tells herself that it isn't exhausting, putting on her uniform every day like it's a suit of armor and holding it all in, like so much smoke trapped inside a glass jar but it's a pretty lie and not one she makes a habit of telling herself often. That kind of self-delusion could very well see her dead before her years and so, she lets herself have her vices, her whisky and her cigarettes and companionship to tie it all together, the chosen few that she trusts enough to see her like this and not walk away finding her wanting, finding her less. 

James lights a cigarette, eyes fluttering closed as he inhales. "Never thought I'd become a smoker. Oy vey, if my Ma could see me now." 

"She'd what? Smack you over bended knee, Sergeant?" 

James slants her a keen, amused look. "I was gonna say, she'd hit me upside the head but I know where your mind's at now, Agent Carter."

Peggy shakes her head, refusing to rise to the general air of unkempt debauchery that settles around the good Sergeant as easy as breathing. Not always, not when he's out in the field or in the middle of a meeting -- there, he is like her, sharp and put together, always with a smart comment and good insight. But here, in the space that they've carved for themselves, a touch of familiarity and comfort, no cards kept close to the chest, he becomes something else entirely, something relaxed and loose-limbed, a pleased half-smile always just hiding in the curve of his lips. 

He likes her, in spite of himself, and it surprises her a little more every time. 

"I was thinking about that dance. After the war, after all of this is over. You got any place in mind, Agent Carter? Because if not, I can think of a few fine establishments in Brooklyn if you're willing to put up with dancin' on American soil." 

Peggy plucks the cigarette out of James's hands, pointedly ignoring his put-upon huff as she takes a drag. "I like America just fine, James. I like dancing even more. Somehow, I'm confident we'll find a way to make it work." 

"You know, if anyone can finally talk Steve into learnin' how to dance, it'll be you," James says, and they're not just talking about dancing, not really, they're talking about what comes next -- they've ridden a fine line of indecision, here, but James has already made the choice to walk away, has made his peace with the inevitability of it. She can see it in his eyes, the way they go a little dark, a little sad, whenever Steve's in the room. 

She and James, they know the world for how it really is. It's one of the first things that she learned to respect about him. 

"And what about you, James? Who will be on your dance card? Private Lorraine, perhaps?" 

James lets out a bark of laughter. "Now I know you're just talking shit, Agent. Private Lorraine's only got eyes for you and you know it." 

So it's not just her, then, that's noticed the way Private Lorraine always manages to pick her out in a crowd, the way that gaze follows her, tracking from head to toe, always admiring. It'd made Peggy feel warm all over, the first time she'd noticed it, sent a thrill through her that she hasn't felt since she was in school. 

But Private Lorraine, a singularly beautiful and impressive woman though she may be, likes to play games. She likes to keep her secrets close and her heart tucked away and Peggy -- well, Peggy finds that she has less patience for that, these days. 

"She's a very beautiful woman," Peggy says, taking one last drag of the cigarette before crushing it neatly on the side of the cot. "But I rather think my dance card is full. Besides, I've never been one for blondes," she says, pointedly, and James laughs at this, a loud, fully body laugh that shifts the cot. 

He's still laughing when Steve pushes back the flap and steps inside the tent, looking down at them, equal parts tired and pleased at the sight of them and that just makes James laugh harder and now, she can't help but join him, Steve's confusion only setting her off even more until she's hiding her face in James's shoulder and her whole body is shaking with it, helpless, childish giggles that make her feel five years younger and thousands of miles away. 

. 

There was this lesson that always sticks in Sam's mind, now. It was years and years ago, when he was just a little kid first learning about Captain America. List five adjectives or descriptive phrases that fit Captain America. The other kids in his class had churned out the usual, expected catch phrases and so had he. 

Brave. Patriotic. Courageous. Bold. Self-sacrificing. So on and so forth, ad nauseam. 

Sam'd like to add a few more to the list, namely: grumpy bisexual personal space hog. 

It took him by surprise, how much of an affectionate, tactile guy Steve's turned out to be. Steve never takes up space where permission is not given but once it is, he slides ride into it and there's something of a relief, there, like he's been lonely and touch-starved for far, far too long which probably, Sam realizes, he has. 

It's not exactly a hardship and anyways, Sam's always been the same way. A little less so, maybe, since losing Riley but he guesses they're both learning how to break out of their self-imposed coping habits. 

They were in the middle of nowhere Montana, chasing a lead on the Winter Soldier when it turns out the lead was about as dead as a lead could conceivably be and that's about when Sam turned off the road and ordered Steve into the bed of the pick up truck, sleeping bags and all because they need this -- they need these moments of decompression, of humanity, or else they're gonna wind up killing each other on this damn fool chase of theirs. 

Steve had fought it, at first, turned that stubborn glare and clenched jaw in Sam's direction, the one that made him look a little bit like a grumpy eagle which is just too many shades of hilarious, really, but he's warmed up to it, now, head pillowed on Sam's stomach as Sam absently cards a hand through Steve's hair. It's getting long again, getting to be the way it used to be in all of the old film reels. Sam wonders if that's intentional, another deliberate choice to fashion himself into something more familiar for Bucky's sake but he gets Steve well enough by now to know that asking is a waste of time. 

They talk about anything and everything, in these moments, but mostly they talk about Riley. Sam didn't set out for it to be this way but it's like once he started, he couldn't stop, safe and comforted in the knowledge that here in this dirty, slightly uncomfortable pickup truck, is the only other person he knows who gets it. Who knows what it is to walk around feeling like every second you turn around, there's someone who's meant to be there, just one step to the left of you, always shoulder to shoulder like you could take on the world together. 

Who knows the jarring, crash-in of reality when you turn and you find nothing but empty space. 

Steve needs this chase to keep him going but more and more, Sam's starting to feel like maybe he needed it just as much. 

"Was it ever…was it ever hard for you? Back then, I mean," Sam asks. It's a question that's been itching at him for a while because it's not hard to dredge up that familiar look of cold, heavy anger on Riley's face, the way he'd ignore the letters from his parents, toss them in the nearest trash, use them as firewood when they were in a tough bind and call it done, reassure Sam in that soft, Southern drawl of his that he really didn't give a shit and anyways, Steve is a little more well-adjusted about this than Sam was expecting, really. 

Steve shrugs. "Nah…not….I guess not really as much as you'd expect, I think." Steve pauses, as if taking the moment to really turn the question over in his mind before he starts again. "Being poor, that was hard. Being sick all of the time and Bucky not knowin' if he was gonna wake up one morning and find that I hadn't, that was hard. People always looking at me like I was…like I was less, like I was a burden because of everything I couldn't do, that was the hard part." 

Steve lifts a hand up, knuckles rubbing at two-day old stubble almost self-consciously and a slow, fond smile crosses his face, a reflex more than anything that warms Sam down to his bones to see. "Me and Buck? That was easy." 

. 

Steve hunches in his shoulders, more embarrassed than he'd like to be. Natasha takes a bite of ice cream and smirks at him through it, ever infallible. It's impressive how she does that but it's also maybe just this side of annoying. Not for the first time, Steve wonders what it says about him that he keeps making friends with people who are a little bit too good at teasing him. 

"We were undercover," Steve says, a touch too defensively and Sam lets out a loud bark of laughter. They're crowded around the island in Sam's kitchen, right back to where they started and yet somehow, thousands of miles away from it and even Steve's embarrassment can't cover up his relief at seeing all of them like this, happy and safe and whole. 

"Man, if I knew wet-works involved kissing terrifying beautiful people, I would've signed up for this shit a long time ago." 

Bucky leans over with his spoon and steals a bite from Natasha's carton, lips pursed. His face is unreadable and Steve shifts, uneasily, because there was a time when he could read Bucky like the back of his hand, would've guessed exactly what kind of reaction would have followed here but this Bucky, this is someone a little new, a little different and their familiar rhythm fails him, sometimes, throws him back when he least expects it. 

"Was it a good kiss, at least?" 

Natasha shrugs. "Nah. Not my best. I don't think the element of surprise worked in his favor." 

Bucky guffaws. "C'mon, Rogers, I know I taught you better than that." 

"Guess we'll just have to practice some more, then," Steve says, tension in his shoulders loosening, and it's a joke that's equal parts for Bucky and Natasha. Natasha shakes her head at him but he can tell that he's surprised her -- surprised her in a good way, even, and he marks it down in the column labeled, _personal victories_. 

Bucky, though -- Bucky shifts forward, chin on one hand and fixes Steve with a look that is so, _so_ familiar, heavy and sure, and it takes him back to a crowded, cramped apartment and mornings when they'd do anything to keep from having to get out of bed and it's like something inside of him has finally slotted into place after going missing for so long. 

"Guess we will." 

. 

Later, there is this: 

A kiss pressed to the inside of a wrist. A soft, small gesture that speaks volumes. 

Words whispered into skin like promises that they've never made. They can make them, now, and they're just starting to get used to it. 

There are spaces between them and in those spaces, live all the people that they have loved and lost. Family and friends and lovers but this, they know -- that they are better people, for having known them, for having loved them. 

What they are, it is not less, but more. 

Bucky, with a smile that has less edges than it should, swings one leg over Steve's torso, straddling him, and Steve's hands rise up to steady him. "What do you say, Rogers? You got room left on your dance card?" 

"For you, Buck? Always."


End file.
